The Greek's Pregnant Bride

‘Show me what?’

He straightened his shirt, then turned back to face her. ‘I’ll take you to meet her. You can see for yourself why I don’t want my mother anywhere near our wedding.’

* * *

The car came to a stop outside an immaculate two-storey house in a quiet Athenian suburb.

No sooner had the engine been turned off than Christian got out, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door for him.

The entire drive had been conducted in silence, Christian sitting ramrod-straight, only the whiteness of his knuckles betraying what lay beneath his skin.

It was a demeanour Alessandra had never seen from him before. It unnerved her.

That he’d cancelled his first appointment of the day had unnerved her even more; that, and the grim way he’d said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’

of dread that she followed

at the door, lines all over her weathered face,

on her heel and walked back inside, leaving the

itself was pristine, a strong smell of bleach pervading the

been a beautiful home

her when Alessandra said, ‘Hárika ya tin gnorimía,’— ‘pleased to meet you’—a phrase she’d practised with the girl who’d brought breakfast to her suite that morning after Christian had grudgingly

in the immaculate kitchen, where the stench

jawline throb. When he replied, his answers were short but measured.

sat in such a

Markos’s demeanour. Her eyes were the same blue as Christian’s but were

as Elena’s eyes. But Christian couldn’t leave it to imaginings. He’d lived

any form of emotional entanglement when this was what

said the name Markos stood for guts and determination but had not appreciated then exactly how great his determination must have been, not just to